The supplier existed only as a post-office box. Its invoices charged the cooperative for new components, yet several parts on the shelves were clearly rebuilt. Lena went pale. The cooperative treasurer, Owen Pike, approved purchases and reimbursed Tomas from receipts. Tomas had complained privately about rising costs but never accused anyone. The removed ledger pages might have documented the difference.

I did not want my first week outside mourning to become an investigation. I also could not ignore evidence attached to Tomas's name. We photographed the bay without moving anything and called the cooperative's accountant. She compared bank records while I identified which components were used. Payments had gone to the unknown supplier for nearly two years. Tomas's handwritten mileage notes made the pattern visible.

Owen arrived before the accountant finished. He said Lena had no authority to search a volunteer's storage and suggested grief was confusing me. That word steadied me. I told him exactly which alternator had been rebuilt, which invoice claimed it was new, and where Tomas had etched the repair date. Owen stopped addressing me as a widow and began asking who had called the police.

No one had, yet. Lena's board attorney advised preserving records and making a formal report. Owen left after surrendering his key. As his pickup disappeared, the black town car returned and parked outside the bay. The same driver stepped out, opened the trunk, and removed a sealed archive box. He said Tomas had paid him to store it for thirty days unless June asked for the maintenance ledger. I asked the driver to place the box on the workbench and step back. My hands were steady until I saw Tomas's red tape across the lid. He had sealed it himself, using the same uneven knot he tied around every birthday gift.